I align myself with floorboards, perpendicular to a blackened glass, stretch; lengthen my life, they say, while coffee brews. Making a cat, a cow, a downward dog, I think of all that I have learned about you. How, for every question you have answered, another has taken its place, and a space, that should be closing, has only opened to new and infinite possibility. Herein, I think, as my blood stirs, lies the mystery that Enoch called God. It feels odd to find it between us—this space—undeserved. At least it does now, before coffee. Maybe this will change when my cup is full.